Just One Night
by 221Bombastic
Summary: Sherlock screws up...big time. To make it up to John and redeem himself, Sherlock takes them on a wild adventure through London, featuring a quick case, some very human and non-Sherlockian recreational fun, haunting nightmares of Afghanistan, drunken karaoke, harassment of the homeless network and a VERY interesting first dance.
1. Promises Made

Sherlock's voice cracked as he comprehended the words his flat mate had just said. "John?"

Watson merely shook his head, drained of all his rage and energy. A moment before the good doctor had been seething, his face red and sweat beading on his forehead as he screamed at Sherlock. He was livid, for Sherlock had been missing for a week, and just now returned with no explanation.

Sherlock shuddered as John's voice echoed back in his thoughts. "No, Sherlock! This is the last time! I will not be treated like rubbish then be expected to take care of you anymore! I just can't! Find someone else to be your skull, I'm finished."

Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. He could feel panic seizing his heart in a frenzied grip and he scrambled to appease John. "Please, John. I'll make it up to you. I promise. Give me one more night, I beg of you."

"One more night? Are you kidding me, Sherlock?" John shouted, unbelievable. He let out a breathlessly cruel laugh. "If you hadn't been gone for a week, you would've had several nights." The man turned to go up the stairs when Sherlock grabbed his arm and turned him around.

"John, I'm begging you. How many chances in a lifetime do you get to see me beg?" The detective smirked, but quickly wiped it off of his face when he saw that John was not amused. "Look, John. I know I made an error, but if you leave, who will I have to help keep me in line? One night. I'll make it up to you. Please?" Sherlock was seriously considering getting on his knees and pleading, but the blogger responded just as he was lowering himself.

"Ugh, Sherlock, I..." John looked up at the man. "Wait, what were you just about to do?"

Sherlock looked around uncomfortably. "I don't know what you're talking about. What do you say?" he asked looking John in the eyes.

John sighed, getting lost in his thoughts for a moment. He rapidly straightened making him appear strong and confident. "Fine, but just one night, and if this isn't the best night of my life," he paused for effect and looked deep into the detectives eyes. Sherlock could feel his stare penetrate deep into his soul, reading his secrets," I will leave, and _never_ come back. You won't have anyone to fix you. Are we clear?"

Sherlock nodded, war and unsure, a feeling he did not experience often.

"Great. So what do you have planned for me?" John turned around, smiling to himself and pretending to look through the mail, leaving a flustered Sherlock behind him.

Sherlock faltered. How did one go about apologizing to his best friend? "Well, I thought I'd let you loose in London." he smirked. "We could have a night out."

John smiled to himself at that, and settled in with the paper for a few hours before going out with Sherlock to solve a case. It seemed difficult to John, and to Lestrade, who had asked the two to come have a look. A mother had been found murdered by her two children during their household game of hide and go seek. She had supposedly been kilometers away at an event for her office firm, and the children's governess denied ever having known that she was in the house. It was not a particularly hard case, but Sherlock was interested, so they took a cab to the Yard.

Sherlock, undoubtedly, loved impressing John. He loved the look of utter astonishment that crept onto his friend's face whenever after solving a seemingly impossible case. He wore a mask of emotionless indifference, instead of letting on that he already had a concrete idea of who the murderer was as they stepped out of the car and into the bustling crime scene. Sherlock lifted the police tape for John, Lestrade gave them the basic information about the case, and after an exchange of contumely between Sherlock and Anderson, and then between Sherlock and Donovan, the detective and the blogger made their way into the flat and up the stairs to the room where the body was.

It was a small flat, but lavishly furnished with posh décor, the type one would expect to see in a magazine. The tables were glass, the seating white leather and plastic, and the floors were grey tile with snowy fur throws. It all looked very expensive, very unlived in, and untouchable.

All the while, Sherlock was making mental notes, appearing to be merely gazing around. Sherlock immediately noticed the governess who was being questioned outside. She had an extremely red face and red eyes, which could be from the previous events, but it appeared to be from the temperature of her face and irritation. Her nails were bitten to stubs, most likely from nervousness. Her eyes were dilated and she looked incredibly sick. She was wearing a necklace that looked to be pure gold with diamonds. Sherlock averted his attention back to the light wooden door in front of him. It opened to reveal the rather disheveled bedroom of the murder victim and her spouse. Sherlock took in everything. There was an air purifier in the corner, currently running. The body was slumped in the opposite corner. The woman was dressed in a calf length green satin dress. Her black and green scarf was draped over her mouth, her left arm holding it in position while her right arm clutched her stomach. Her purse was lying next to her. All of the contents were splayed out on the floor, but one key thing was missing from the pile. Anderson walked into the room to presumably tell him the cause of death, but Sherlock already knew.

"Gas leak," Sherlock said as Anderson opened his mouth. "She must've been inhaling it for at least an hour for it to have fatal effects. She noticed the presence of gas in the room before her death, attempting to create a mask with her scarf and hoping someone would find her. Therefore, she was trapped in here, meaning locked in, because she let herself in the room. She came back here to retrieve her forgotten phone, but it wasn't present. Subsequently, she is murdered. By whom you ask? Judging by the rate at which that air purifier is working and when you put it in here, she would've been dead for three hours, but she came into the house at one and was dead by three and was found at four and now it is nine, so the times don't coincide. No one else was affected by the leak, except for the governess. The leak was only in this room because it had a gas line separate from the rest of the building, as it was originally part of the original structure. But the children were the ones to find the body, and they haven't been poisoned at all, so the room was aired out, the gas turned off, and the door unlocked directly after she was killed. The husband wasn't home; he was still at the work event. _He_ had her phone When she came in to the house looking for the phone, she went to the only place it might be. Upon entering her bedroom, she noticed the smell, although she didn't know that it was gas she smelled until later. She heard her door close and lock. Connecting the dots, she searched for her phone everywhere, but it wasn't there because, again, her husband had it. So, who closed the door? _The governess_." Sherlock paused and looked around at startled and questioning faces.

"The governess closed the door and locked it, counting down the seconds to her employer's death. She turned on the leak, and as a result was exposed to the gas as well. She turned it on after the woman and her husband left for the event, giving the gas time to pervade the room before the woman came back looking for her phone. After she died, the governess turned off the leak and unlocked the door, making it look like an accident. She is now suffering from gas poisoning, showing symptoms of nausea, nervousness, fever, and irritation. She killed the woman because she was having an affair with the woman's husband. She loves him and believes that he loves her back. He gave her the necklace she is wearing. In all actuality, he has a string of lovers and simply used the governess, knowing she would kill his wife for him."

Sherlock sighed and took in a breath. He turned and started for the door, knowing John would follow. "Oh, come on Lestrade, even Anderson could've gotten that one." he shouted over his shoulder before exiting the scene.


	2. Hole In One

John's face was frozen for a moment before he grinned up at Sherlock. "That's...its fantastic, you know that?"

When Sherlock returned the smile, John felt his chest flutter. He couldn't stay mad at Sherlock for long, after all Sherlock was his best mate, but he had been totally serious about leaving. He waited for Sherlock to catch the eye of a cabbie so they could be off to wherever he had in mind. He had exactly four hours as of now to convince John to stay. John got into the cab behind Sherlock, and settled in. The cabbie asked for an address. Sherlock responded with the address he had found hours earlier. Believe it or not, arcades aren't all that popular in London, so it took him a while to find a place with the right features. Sherlock could see John getting antsy as the minutes ticked by. The arcade was on the edge of town, so it was a long drive, especially with Saturday night traffic.

Eventually, the cab stopped. Sherlock threw some cash at the cabbie and then dragged John out of the cab. John was momentarily flustered by the sudden contact, but he was then confused, not knowing his surroundings.

"Sherlock, where...?" John trailed off as he saw a glowing neon sign. The rest of the building appeared run down and old. _Is the man crazy,_ John thought to himself. _Oh wait, yes, he is. _

"So...erm, Sherlock?" John began awkwardly, staring up at the building. "What are we doing here?"

"Mini-golf."

"I'm sorry, what?" John questioned suspiciously.

Sherlock huffed, tossing curls out of his face. "Mini-golf, John. Put-put. A smaller, more recreational version of the sport played with 18 holes on a green."

Sherlock scowled, he honestly had thought John would have been please with him trying to do something so...ordinary. But John was more than pleased, he was absolutely amazed. They were actually doing something regular people considered fun. They weren't dumpster diving for clues or massacring a corpse, they were playing mini golf! John could only nod and smirk, lost in his thoughts. It took him a while to realize Sherlock had been speaking to him. Sherlock peered into his friend's eyes.

"Are you quite alright, John?" he pursed his lips. "I've been talking to you."

"Huh? Oh yeah, yeah, I'm fine. What were you saying?"

"I was asking if you had ever played but I see that you have, by your look of recognition. Anyway, here is your put." John looked around and saw that they had moved inside the old building without him realizing and that Sherlock had already chosen their game and puts. The inside of the building was all black and neon colors. There were arcade games, some older than John was. "Wow, I think I remember coming here as a kid." John said as he took the club from Sherlock and they started heading for the outside course.

John grimaced. Good Lord, this was taking forever. They were only on the fourth hole, and Sherlock had been "calculating" his move for ten minutes now, measuring distance and cataloguing the ball's velocity. Sure, he had made a hole in one every time, but at this rate it would be ages before they finished the course.

"Don't you ever just swing and miss like a normal person?" John teased.

Sherlock snapped to attention with a huff. He was put off by the cheesy atmosphere and decor, and the annoying sing-song playing on loop in the background disrupted his thinking. He fixed John with a piercing stare out of the corner of his eye, making John shiver.

"No, I don't ever JUST DO anything. You should know that by now." he smirked, and struck the small dimpled ball with his club. The white blur flew straight down the hill, rising over the bump to hit the exact angle of the curb, depositing in the hole with a clatter. He smiled triumphantly down at his flat mate, who grumbled as he walked to the front. The doctor jammed his ball in makeshift tee worn into the artificial turf, and whacked it with the club. It rolled over the hill, stopping a meter away from the hole. He aimed again, and the little ball narrowly curved around it. As he muttered about the courses "being rigged", he heard Sherlock's soft laugh behind him as he marked down six strokes before they moved on to the next hole.

By the end of the 18th hole, Sherlock had won, 18 to 74. Sherlock had a smirk on his face that seemed to permanently be there.

"So, what next?" Sherlock asked after he turned in the puts.

"I don't know, you're the one who planned this night out." John grumbled, annoyed at the past hour in a half. He wasn't mad that he lost, just that they wasted a portion of their time together.

"Oh, right, right. Hm…let's see what's next on the agenda." Sherlock looked far off into the distance, thinking, John figured. Sherlock head suddenly snapped back to John. "Ah! I know exactly what we're doing!" With that, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and ran back into the rickety building. John couldn't help but feel a flash of déjà vu.


	3. Watch That PTSD

Sherlock dragged John into a small section of the arcade. He outfitted them with thick vests, weighed down by wires, and they pushed through a turnstile into a dark, futuristic room. Lights began to flash and lasers shot colors across the walls to the thump of action metal. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who smiled.

"The game is on!" he cried, as they were both handed guns. John's hands settled firmly around it before he could realize it, but he shivered a little as the pounding back beat became gunshots. Sherlock dashed off "to map out the arena", leaving John alone, just like on their cases. He surveyed the room he was in as the familiar sense of déjà vu rose in his chest.

John felt sweat creep up on his neck. He stumbled farther into the labyrinth of caverns and lights. He heard soft footsteps behind him and swiftly turned around, pulling the trigger of his laser gun, hitting a kid right on target. Suddenly, he wasn't in an arcade. The guns were genuine and the plastic maze was dirt and buildings. The kid he just temporarily disarmed was a person he just killed. He heard loud gunshots and explosions. He looked up and saw Sherlock in the enemy's clothing. That isn't right, he thought to himself. Sherlock had a gun, and it was aimed at John. John pulled his trigger first, but Sherlock was faster and he ducked onto the hot, dusty ground, while pulling the trigger, hitting John right in the chest.

John gasped and sank to the floor on his knees, hands fanned out over his chest. Pain bloomed across his pectorals and spots swam before his eyes. He felt wet blood staining his palms, and he heard a muffled curse before strong arms were encircling him, wrapping around his shoulders tightly. Sherlock drew his blogger into his lap, and John buried his face into his friend's neck, seeking out the soothing warmth. A cool hand brushed across his brow, and he stopped caring that Sherlock wore the enemy uniform because Sherlock was his friend, he had killed for this man, this man had died for him and he loved this man-Wait. Oh God, he really was going crazy! A loud monotone buzzer assaulted John's ear drum from above, and he was whisked back into reality. He'd had a PTSD attack...that was all that had happened. There was no battlefield; he had not been fatally shot in the chest by his flat mate. Watson exhaled a shaky breath as Sherlock nonsensical syllables began to reassemble as words in his mind. The man's deep baritone whispered hushed apologies.

"John. John, I am sorry. This was stupid of me, I didn't even think about the fact that you might-"

The words died out as John concluded that the comforting arms that held him were, in fact, a part of reality. His eyes darted up to Sherlock's stricken expression as he barked out, "No, Sherlock, I'm fine. I just need a drink." His partner nodded, swiftly pulling the doctor to his feet and shoving him into a cab.

The pub they went to was one close to Baker Street, and often frequented by John, along with Mike Stamford or Lestrade when he needed company besides Sherlock Holmes. The moment his arse hit the chair John had ordered two shots of whiskey and a beer, gulping them down as he tossed a few pounds at the bartender. Sherlock lingered awkwardly beside him, tugging off the black leather gloves that adorned his hands, unwillingly to sit gingerly in the seat next to Watson. He was eventually convinced by an adjacent customer, who politely suggested in his slurred American accent that Sherlock, "Try the Pinot Grigio."

Surprised they carried the brand at such a common pub, the consultant detective settled in with a glass that quickly turned into six glasses. John matched Sherlock's alcohol surplus with eight beers of his own with five more shots to boot. Soon both men were giggling at the sports match on the telly, receiving sympathetic nods from all those not yet drunk in at the bar, and a knowing glare from the manager. A perky young waitress with several ear piercings and screaming blonde hair cranked the dial on the radio to blast the song playing.

"Oh, this is my jam!" she squealed to her companion, a tall woman in her late forties with graying brown locks and a lazy eye. Sherlock scoffed at her.

"Please, you only listen to this song because it was in playing the background when you lost your virginity three months ago. You hate this song like you secretly hate your boyfriend. The only reason you're dancing to it is because the memories it conjures are somehow better than your hatred of this job." The girl's brick red painted mouth formed a perfect 'O' as it dropped open, and the other woman quirked her eyebrows in an amused manner.

"Yea?" she shot back. "Well, at least I'm not royally knackered on a Saturday night with my gay lover!" Sherlock turned to find John wearing a bemused expression, and both men fell over with laughter. They laughed until their sides ached and tears wear streaming down John's face. They were not just tears of hilarity, but were tears for the entire night the ex-army doctor didn't know he had needed to shed.

The song changed, the opening tune of "Watch That Man" pumping through the tiny radio speakers. Sherlock smirked at John, grabbing his hands and pulling him to stand on top of their stools. The Baker Street boys screeched the song drunkenly at the top of their lungs, shaking their butts and grooving to Bowie to the displeasure of the other patrons.

"WATCH THAT MAN! OH HONEY, WATCH THAT MAA-AAN! HE TALKS LIKE A JERK BUT HE COULD EAT YOU WITH A FORK AND A SPOON!" slurred the two. A few tipsy others hummed along as John attempted to twirl Sherlock on his rickety chair. It rattled and rocked from side to side on its uneven legs, and their difference in height did not aid poor hedgehog John. The detective fell to the floor with a loud crash and silence fell over the bar, save the injured man's startled yelp. John choked down his laughter as the manager escorted them to the door. He apologized for both of them profusely, as Sherlock was hanging back because he was offended by their removal from the bar, his arms crossed and a pout drawing his lips into a puckered expression. Nevertheless, they were forced to exit the bar, and as they had spent all of their cab fare, also forced to walk home.


End file.
